


my heart is saying (don't let go, hold on till the end)

by rainny_days



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dancing, Diners, Established Relationship, Jukeboxes, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Tenderness, a soft lil moment after the end of the world, extremely canadian idea of 'retro', idk man i have never danced in my life, minor references to, nor have i ever used a jukebox, post-160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21548008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainny_days/pseuds/rainny_days
Summary: It’s pure coincidence that they find the empty diner, its walls streaked with dried blood from what Jon suspects must be an old Slaughter visit but otherwise surprisingly unharmed. When Martin’s eyes light up at the sight of the old-fashioned jukebox, though, it feels a little like- not fate, exactly, but maybe serendipity.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 12
Kudos: 128





	my heart is saying (don't let go, hold on till the end)

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

It’s pure coincidence that they find the empty diner, its walls streaked with dried blood from what Jon suspects must be an old Slaughter visit but otherwise surprisingly unharmed. When Martin’s eyes light up at the sight of the old-fashioned jukebox, though, it feels a little like- not fate, exactly, but maybe serendipity. 

Martin hasn’t let anything on, but Jon knows that he’s been worn down a little for the past few days, his usual steadfast optimism flagging a little under the strain of insomnia and a never-ending stream of monsters. The smile that unfurls like sun over fresh snow now, when his eyes fall upon the worn music player, makes something in Jon loosen in relief.

Before he can say anything, Martin is already dragging him over, eyes alight with excitement. “Jon, look!” he says, voice high, and Jon laughs helplessly in the face of his joy.

“I saw,” he says, smiling. “Honestly, I’m a little surprised you weren’t more disappointed that this isn’t an old-fashioned gramophone. A jukebox seems a little- _modern_ , for you-”

Martin shoves his shoulder a little, biting down on a smile. “Oh, shut _up_ ,” he says, laughter still clear in his voice. “It’s not- it could’ve just been about the music-” Jon snorts, and Martin shoves him again, a little harder. “Jerk.”

“My apologies,” Jon says dryly. “ _Was_ it about the music, Mr. Blackwood?”

Martin mock-glares at him. “In fact, it _was_ , Mr. Sims,” he says, and presses a firm, silencing kiss on Jon’s lips before hurrying over to the register, presumably to look for a coin for the machine. Jon swallows a comment on the likely functionality of something that had stood in the midst of a Slaughter massacre, and instead goes to check on the locks, making sure that each door and window is covered and latched. It won’t stand against much of the things that are hunting them, but the pretense makes him feel a little safer.

In the background, he can hear Martin give a small cheer as he manages to get the register open, the clatter of coins ringing loud in the emptiness of the diner. Jon smiles a little as he pushes another table against the door, helplessly charmed. Behind him, he hears the _clink_ of a coin being dropped and a few small taps, Martin making small, pleased noises as he scrolls through the song offerings. When the music starts playing, Jon can’t help the snort of laughter that bubbles from his lips.

“ _Really_ ,” he says, as he turns to Martin, taking in his satisfied grin. Martin colors a little, but doesn’t stop smiling.

“What? I like it!”

“It’s a little…American, though.”

“ _Jon_ ,” Martin says, exasperated, and Jon concedes, smiling a little. He considers the empty diner, the music playing softly, Martin’s worn smile and the grey smudges beneath his eyes. He holds out a hand.

“May I?” He asks, and bites down on a nervous laugh when Martin’s eyes widen, his cheeks darkening even more.

“…Sorry, what?” he eyes Jon’s hand a little warily, and Jon rolls his eyes.

“It’s pretty self-evident,” he says dryly, a little humor creeping back into his voice. “I _believe_ I’m asking you to dance, Mr. Blackwood.”

Martin stares at him for a long, incredulous second, the way he used to do when Jon would drop a casual endearment, or touch him with easy affection. As if he couldn’t quite believe Jon was doing this, that he was being allowed to see Jon like this. Jon felt quite the same much of the time, whenever he caught Martin’s half-asleep face first thing in the morning, or watched the quiet joy in his expression as he allowed himself to have some little token of Jon’s affections. It was that expression that stole its way over his face now as he realizes that Jon is being utterly serious, his absurd eyelashes fluttering with surprised joy as he bites his lip and takes Jon’s outstretched hand. “Do you even know how to dance?” he asks.

“A little, not much,” Jon admits, tugging Martin closer and considering a little before putting a hand on his shoulder, reveling in the breadth of it under his fingers. Martin hesitates, then curves his fingers gently around Jon’s waist, sweet and utterly secure. “But it’s not like we have an audience. You?”

Martin shakes his head a little, the dark fringes of his hair brushing Jon’s cheeks in their proximity. “When would I have had the time to do that?” he points out dryly. Jon hums in acknowledgement, and the vibration of his voice reverberates in the warm sliver of space between their bodies.

It can’t really be called dancing, whatever they’re doing, just a gentle sway of bodies to the hum of the melody, the intimate rustle of skin on fabric, the gentle brush of Martin’s jaw to Jon’s forehead, his lips pressed in a gesture of absent-minded affection to his temple. When Jon begins to hum, completely involuntarily, He feels the lips on his skin exhale in a soft huff of laughter.

“What?” he says, quiet and arch.

Martin laughs a little louder, and Jon feels the sound down the line of his body, memorizes the exact vibration of it the way he memorizes every new thing about Martin. “It’s just-” Martin says, amusement still warm in his voice. “You have a nice voice, that’s all.”

Jon very much doubts that that is all, but when Martin lowers his face to press his lips to Jon's, the music falling into instrumentals behind them, he finds that he doesn’t quite have the capacity to ask any further. When the song slows, stops, and the diner falls again into silence, they don’t move away, still curved together in the quiet bubble that they’ve made. 

“Martin?” Jon says eventually, breaking the fragile silence. He can feel a slight tackiness beneath his shoes that he very much does not want to think about any further, and if he concentrates, he thinks he can see the shadows in the corners quiver. When Martin hums in reply, though, he doesn’t bring them up, doesn’t point out any of the multitude of things that they both know are biding their time to creep up upon them. Instead, he presses a small kiss to Martin’s collar, tilts his head back to look him in the eyes.

“Are there any more coins in that register?”

**Author's Note:**

> no points if you know what the song is, but also don't judge me both martin and i have a soft spot for old musicals


End file.
